


Courtesy Call

by wishwellingtons



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Series 4, righteous fury, ttoi kinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishwellingtons/pseuds/wishwellingtons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally in response to a prompt: when word gets out that Malcolm Tucker's traded in his Caledonian mafioso for the poor boy's David Niven, Sam calls to check on Jamie. Jamie in no way has feelings or emotions or a dementedly brilliant plan for revenge. </p><p>After Ollie's "first confirmed kill", but before Goolding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courtesy Call

" - known the _comparable_ indignity of being _betrayed_ by Malcolm while in the service of public - "

"Go piss on Fiona Bruce, Jul'us."  
  
Jamie wished that mobile phones gave you something to _slam_. Every time he'd hung up on a concerned-slash-treacherous caller (which was all of them, the fuckin' _bastards_ ), he'd been forced to give his cut-off sufficient emphasis by throwing his phone at the wall. Unfortunately, as he drained the contents of his wine cellar (which was less _wine_ than an acid glut of tramps' piss, and less a _cellar_ than every available surface), it was becoming increasingly difficult to slide after the phone and get it back. Which he needed to do, because someone - anyone - anyone not fucking _Julius or Stewart_ might call.  
  
  
  
.... _anyone._  
  
Jamie wiped his nose on his sleeve and didn't have emotions or _feelings_ or give a shit about any of it.  
  
He moved onto cans of cider.  
  
The next caller was Sam. She in no way thought Jamie sounded heartbroken, or dangerous, or badly in need of a stomach-pump-then-hug.  
  
Jamie, whose throat had seized up like Sam was _home_ and Jamie a wee and orphaned bairn (which, secretly, was at least partly how Sam was thinking of him - _please look after this contract killer_ ), stayed stuck in a choked, lost voice until Sam, after offering her sympathies (and pretending the mournful hiccups were inaudible), tentatively asked what _exactly_ Jamie planned to _do_ , now - now the situation with Ollie was clear.  
  
Jamie found the way back to his throat, and roared.  
  
"Cut off my bollocks and snot up the stumps because Malc's bought Dennis-Not-Even-Slightly-The-Fuckin'-Menace a _diamond_? Pop Adele up on YouTube and greet til I'm asked tae _bridesmaid_?" Sam sighed, and carried on clicking through  _net-a-porter_. "Fuck you. I hope it fuckin' works out for them, maybe _Reeder_ 'll let Malc know where he keeps his portrait in the attic." And then, in the shocked pause where Sam wondered who or what had introduced Jamie to _Dorian Gray_ , the world's saddest Scotsman slammed the phone down (see above: this time it hit a window).

  
Sam waited for a couple of minutes, took a deep breath and rang back.

Jamie had, in the intervening moments, apparently consumed more alcohol than was feasible or legal, and now spoke in a voice that was equal parts ethanol and fire. There was a terrible noise in the background, which initially sounded like the torture of of oppressed peoples, but which Sam (for her own sanity) decided to believe was just the blare of Jamie's stereo, if there were something _really wrong with the stereo_ (and there was. Jamie had been throwing _that_ at the wall, too.).

"Jamie."

"Fuck off, Pippa Middleton." Sam tried patience. Her brow creased.

"I'm glad you're still there."

"I havenae dragged myself off to die under a bush, I'm not a fuckin' - _Arctic_ ," Jamie grumbled, now thoroughly too pissedto complete the metaphor.

Sam took a breath.

"Jamie. ...I'm so sorry, but I do have to ask you - or check, really. You're not going to... _do_ anything?"

 

"Oh what, balaclavas and fucking grapple hooks at dawn? Semtex in his Fanta and a fucking Hansard up the arse? Or, no, great bloody idea, I'll kidnap Harry Potter and post him back to ShadCab - _ShadCab_ , sweet Mary and Moses, eh the people's flag really _is_ the colour of jizz-and-Merlot - one hairless nipple at a time?" Sam bit her lip and tried not to giggle. "Maybe I'll just turn up at the Commons and light meself on fire like one ae those monks, eh, holdin' a wee sign sayin' _Malcolm Tucker fucked me up the_ \- which would NOT be an even slightly accurate representation of what that withered old cadaver liked when - "

Sam immediately held the phone at arm's length from her ear. There were some things she never needed to know/confirm. When she judged a suitable amount of time had passed, she resumed the conversation.

" - never sent _me_ any fuckin' balloon."

Oh, god. This was starting to sound unbearably sad. With a lurch of pity, Sam tried to decide how likely Jamie was, if he passed out, to  die of heartbreak or vomit-filled airways.

"I'm really sorry. I - Ollie's - "

" - yeah yeah yeah. I know. Stupit cunting sad sack fucker. Eh. Made of _shit_ _e_."

Sounds of fumbling. Static hiss of Jamie lighting cigarette. Deep and rather fluid exhale. Hacking cough worthy of urban _Downton_. "He's no fuckin'...." the sentence trailed off, and Sam devoutly hoped she wouldn't be called upon to end it. "...s'load ae _bollocks,_ Sam. Malc an' me - fuckin' Ollie, he's no the same, he's... jesus. _Stupit._ S'probably dementia. He _looks_ fuckin' demented."

"But, Jamie. No leaks?"

With a sigh, Sam went back to holding the phone at arm's length again. She did it for long enough that when she resumed, Jamie had not only stopped shouting, but was already apologising for calling her a smug-arsed, gash-faced excuse for a quisling whorebitch. She very truthfully claimed not to remember him saying it. Jamie was fervent, not to say emotional, in his gratitude.

"I think you can sit this out, Jamie, really I do. It won't last. Just keep where you are, and... whatever Malcolm wants Ollie for, it _can't_ be for actual political strategy."

"Stranger fuckin' bedfellows, darlin'. Needs more beer." Sound of ringpull being ripped and released. Sounds of glugging. Cigarette again. "But yeah, dinnae... fret yourself, m'not gonnae turn up and _abduct_ him. Or dress as Batman and swing from the Cenotaph," he joked, sounding distinctly cheered by the prospect.

"No gaffa tape at dawn?"

"Or at any point on the cock-clock. Thanks for calling." He dragged on the cigarette again; Sam hoped he wouldn't set fire to himself by _accident_. "How's the lovely wife?"

"Great, thanks. Finishing her thesis."

"Remind me...?"

"Political responses to the Iraq War."

"Like us losin' the fucking election! Only fuckers worth bombing are _Rangers_ and the Tories."

She smiled. "I'll let her quote you on that. Get some sleep?"

Jamie snorted. "I thought I might find a blizzard and fuckin' sleep in that."

"Well, if you do, take a tent. Goodnight, Jamie."

 

"Same to you, princess." Wrinkling her nose, Sam hung up. 

 

Jamie stared morosely into the television screen.

Most of the atoms connected with his cognitive processes were now above heat in alcohol and self-pity, but struggling somewhere around the cortex, a few microbes of thought began bashing against each other and forging connections.

He had to go and pour cold water on his head for ten minutes, and _eat_ something, and then (because even macademia nuts can eventually go out of date) throw it up again, but at the end of a particularly vile quarter of an hour, Jamie Macdonald had _a plan_. And he had Sam's wee dyke wife tae thank for it.

Jamie's neighbours were used to odd scenes, strange noises, and frightening language, all of which they had learned to ignore as assiduously as they did the (far less frequent) visits of an unmarked, chauffeur-driven black car, which stayed all night and whose occupant they could never clearly see. But now, the insomniacs and nervous residents of Jamie's street (strangely, there were several) had their nerves severely tested, as a tiny, muffled figure ran from the front door, wrenched at the garage, swore, kicked the garage, raced back to the house and returned again with lunatic energy, to try the more _orthodox_ method of actually inserting a key into the actual garage door.

An impromptu wardance and arms flung skywards let onlookers (nervously trying to remember if it was  _999_ or  _101_ or _118 118_ for small madmen attempting to rifle their own homes) know this had worked. Jamie Macdonald (for it was he) swung the garage door upwards (with the attendant screech of unoiled slides), dashed inside, and began throwing items over his shoulders with the velocity of a cartoon character. A psychotic cartoon character, with bloodshot eyes and sick down his ( _Motherwell Is For Lovers-_ clad) chest.

After a minute (inadequate burglary? Overdose/LSD?) the throwing (bike pump, football boots, _chainsaw_ ) stopped. There was a comical crash, and a sound of pain as if the subject had been shot. Then repeated crashes, and shufflings, and (in the distance) much muffled invective as the tiny muffled figure (now a structure with batlike wings, no head, and several large, jointless legs) made its slow and slightless way backwards, onto the darkened drive.

Jamie Macdonald threw down his big, canvas burden, and saw that it was good.

Tomorrow, he was going to Parliament Square. And he'd be taking his tent.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Jamie's plan will make a lot more sense if you google Brian Haw's Parliament Square protest...


End file.
